Stop the Presses
by Aveza
Summary: College AU. When bright-eyed budding writer, TK Takaishi, is assigned to cover the art exhibit of no-frills photographer, Kari Kamiya, his report ends up sounding more like a declaration of love than a newspaper article. But with his feelings aired, and his entire university in on the drama, can his words truly impress, perhaps, the most decidedly unromantic girl on the planet?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** **:** **Well, well, it's my second ever attempt at writing some fully-fledged Takari, and I am both excited and scared out of my wits! Why? Because I am posting this as a work in progress, so nothing is complete, and there is a huge risk that it will never get finished. BUT… this idea has consumed me for months and I really, really, really needed to just air it out.**

 **So, here we are.**

 **Note: if you've read any of my other fanfics, you know I write TK as a bit of a mischievous, subtly pretentious, and naïve boy. His characterization here is no different, but may be even more exaggerated.**

 **Enjoy and happy reading! Reviews/comments/criticism are appreciated!**

xXx

 ** _Stop the Presses_**

xXx

 _Summary_ _: College AU. When bright-eyed budding writer, TK Takaishi, is assigned to cover the art exhibit of no-frills photographer, Kari Kamiya, his report ends up sounding more like a declaration of love than a newspaper article. But with his feelings aired, and his entire university in on the drama, can his words truly impress, perhaps, the most decidedly unromantic girl on the planet? Takari._

xXx

" **T** akaishi, check this out."

A paper flung at him, seesawing through air before gliding to a stop atop his table.

He pulled the lip of his coffee cup away from his mouth, blue eyes peeking south at the advertisement. Overhead, the _Canto_ 's editor-in-chief made her pitch, as if he needed much persuasion to go on assignment. As he read, his ears followed his editor's movements in the room: close, then behind him, trailing to her desk. Her name was Catherine, and she was blonde, beautiful, and all business.

"An art show?" he questioned. He kept his curiosity purely clerical. To inflect on "art" would suggest disappointment in the subject, which was not true. Drawing out "show" would suggest dubiousness about the type of event. And to stress "an" would only make it sound like he was questioning otherwise perfect English grammar.

"Thought you'd like it," said Catherine. TK swiveled in his desk chair, parking feet on the tiled floor as soon as she filled his line of vision. She stood by their newsroom copier, smoothing the rumples in her black pencil skirt as she waited for her print job. Her professionalism for even a student newspaper should have shamed TK (a few of his colleagues had opted to sport button-ups and khakis when writing on and off-site), but he preferred comfort to class.

"You know me so well, Kat." He sighed, picking up the flyer she had tossed him and laying it over his heart.

"Of course I do," she retorted. She snatched her draft from the print tray and paged through it, strutting by him to return to her chair. "I play to my strengths. You have an aesthetic eye, and I intend to put that to my use."

TK watched her round her desk. To his credit, he kept his eyes on the back of her blond head and not upon her other... assets.

"What gave me away, if you don't mind my asking?"

Catherine sat and wheeled herself closer to her monitor screen. In seconds she was clacking away at the keyboard.

"Your first assignment with me was to do the police blotter," she announced over her typing. "The main incident was a ruptured septic tank in an old frat house on campus and you proceeded to spend three long paragraphs literally describing shit."

"Oh, yeah." TK recalled the memory with fondness, face upturned at the glaring overheads. He blinked, tearing himself away from one of many seconds spent on nurturing his vanity. "I did that tastefully, mind you."

"I know. This is what you wrote, and I quote." Catherine grabbed a note tacked on a neighboring wall. "'The result was a river of refuse," she orated, "'streams of the digested, the discarded, the dispelled, the earth wet with waste, a bed of soiled soil that glittered, and stank, and steamed.'" She set the note down carefully. " _That's_ when I knew."

He laughed.

"I hope you realize that I..." He smirked. " _bullshitted_ my way through that article." TK paused in the echo of his own witticism, mouth frowning as if he were discovering food he had eaten had gone bad. "Bull _shat_?" he wondered, correcting himself.

The typing stopped. Catherine peeked blue eyes over her monitor and promptly raised her arm, pointing a finger at the exit.

"Out," she said.

xXx

 _Quaint_.

It was TK's first thought as he entered the small, vexingly quiet gallery. The silence held in the air like mesh, nearly palpable, profound enough to suggest people were even afraid to breathe. He stepped further in, taking the pamphlet offered to him by a perky gallery greeter.

"Enjoy the show," she whispered, and he felt like tiptoeing toward the nearest framed piece in the most exaggerated of manners: arms curled, knees bent, like a rabbit—or a thief.

He opted instead to slide into position in front of the first photograph in the lineup, which measured about two by three feet and hung smack in his line of vision. One studio light of many shed an iridescent gleam on the glass, spotlighting its top center. The subject was a bee probing a sunflower, the yellow of both insect and blossom popping, sticking out against the vivid background of blue. He stared at it another five seconds and moved on.

 _Just a photo taken in someone's backyard_ , he surmised. _Nothing that halts digestion_.

He continued his surveillance, feeling deliciously snobby. He was the outsider. At his disposal was a broad range of cutting (albeit amateur) judgments. _What have your eyes captured?_ he wondered, assessing the displays. _What are you trying to show me?_

Mostly, he marked clichés. Tree in a sunset. A house in a sunset. A couple in a sunset. _A sunset_. There were occasional outliers: a homeless man in the rain, a woman in her sweeping red coat, an ant's-eye-view of fall foliage.

Notes were scribbled at random, usually when he felt something. The rarity was marked with a pause in his steps, a response to the visuals that scrunched a heartbeat out of him like a click. These he would highlight. These he would immortalize in print, and he memorized the photos like promises he swore to keep.

He stopped when he heard voices.

Up until then, the gallery had been dead quiet—insanely, unreasonably quiet, as if he were attending a funeral. To hear voices, even soft ones, seemed a huge and profane disturbance. He turned.

A ways off from him was a young woman, her back facing him and her front fronting a pair of young men who had to have been both twice her height and weight. He recognized one as a newsroom colleague, the head editor for the sports section and a member of the collective that imitated Catherine's business casual dress code. Part of TK wanted to intrude and point out that the soccer game was that way, but his colleague also had writing chops. Perhaps he was genuinely interested in art.

His friend, though, was clearly more interested in the artiste.

Discreetly, TK brought out his phone, bringing it close to his face as thumbs tapped the screen, providing his internet following instant verbatim updates on the conversation going down behind him.

After mistaking the subject of one photograph for a feral man (" _I can't believe it! How did you snap a pic of a genuine Neanderthal?_ ") TK could no longer stay mum. He turned and hailed his colleague, impelled to glimpse at the _real_ neanderthal in their midst.

"Hey, Takaishi!" his colleague greeted. "Boss got you covering this?"

"Who else?" he replied, grinning. Hands were shook. TK stepped back, feet planted apart, at leisure, hands in his pockets. He pressed his elbow deeper into his side, keeping his notebook firmly wedged under his armpit. Smiling, he swept a glance at the faces around him. "Enjoying the view?"

The girl frowned. He looked down at her. "I meant your vistas captured here." He gestured at her photographs. "Nice eye you have."

She stared at him, her gaze gripping, the irises limpid despite their warm amber color. TK straightened his neck and swore he felt an invisible pull keeping him trussed. He felt a pinch in his chest, heard an echo in his brain that sounded like a snap.

 _Click_.

"If I were a cyclops," she said, "I'd be flattered."

He shrugged, laughing. His notebook slipped, and his hands fumbled to catch it before it fell to the floor.

"Or a pirate with an eyepatch," he said, recovering. He smiled, aware of the rising heat pooling at his throat. He swallowed, brain, meanwhile, on a desperate search for a calming agent—a memory, a blip. Eventually, they settled on the mysteries of his older brother's collected persona.

 _Stay cool like Matt,_ TK told himself. _Cool like Matt. I am a cold and aloof, emotionally cognizant and musically gifted college male._ He paused. _How the hell does Matt stay like this all the time?_

He caught himself mid-hand-rise, fingers open and reaching to smooth back locks of golden hair, one of his brother's signature mannerisms, and one that never failed in attracting female attention. It was then that TK realized he was wearing a hat. A beanie, in fact. Knit, wooly, and bound to hide matted, knotty thatches of blond hair. In short, his brother's pileous opposite.

He fake-coughed over his shoulder.

"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

TK discovered distraction in action, and the slippery notebook that would have been his bane became his salvation. He opened it and pulled the pen always tucked behind his ear, clicking the butt and setting nib to blank page. The girl retracted a little. TK remembered the two other people in his periphery. "Sorry, guys," he said, smirking. "Working here."

When sportscaster and crony left, TK glimpsed the sudden subject of his curiosity. She was a petite person, the embodiment and epitome of bubblegum sweetness, though he doubted its depth. No cupcake cinnamon roll hurled "cyclops" into everyday conversation.

"Tell me a little about your photographs," he prompted, when she said nothing.

She murmured her reply, the lack of clarity not helped by the fact that she was cringing, if her elevated shoulders were any indication. Miraculously, he still managed to understand every word.

"Here I thought you were going to ask me _questions..._ "

The regular zip and zap of TK's functioning neurons fizzled to burnt ends, like sparklers reaching the ends of their wires. He cleared his throat, pretending to scribble notes on his pad of paper. His scrawl read, messily:

' _Though she be but little, she is fierce.'_

 _P.S. - Going to need ice for this burn._

 _P.S.S. - I am a blender of blunders._

 _P.S.S.S. - Damn. That was good, Takaishi._

" _That_ can easily be rectified," he bandied, side-stepping toward the nearest of her works. He gestured at it with the added flourish of a twirl of the wrist. " _How_ about you tell me about your photographs? Hmm? Better?"

She turned her head, focusing her attentions on her art, though TK caught himself tilting forward, seeking her reaction. He snatched only a flash of it, her reflexes too quick, but was pleased with his findings. The corner of her lips had curled. Her eyes had lowered. A smirk. She was smirking.

Subconsciously, he was, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** **: Halloo! First things first: Happy Holidays to all! Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favorited, and followed this story so far. I know it's in its infancy and I'm hella late to updating, but I thought this would be a good occasion to show you all that, yes, this is still in production.**

 **Another short chapter, but if I added what comes next, it might have been too long. So… without ado, here is chapter two! Enjoy!**

xXx

Chapter Two

xXx

 **K** ari Kamiya sat alert at the table she claimed on the café patio. Though shaded under the brim of an umbrella, she still squinted at the calm current of passersby, camera ready in her hands. Her focus, her quest for the most picturesque of subjects, was thwarted when her roommate breached her line of vision. The latest university periodical slammed down on the wire mesh of the tabletop.

"Oh, my God!" Yolei cried. "Kari, did you _read_ this?"

'This' was illustrated by way of Yolei snatching the paper back up, parting it, and poking a stiff digit at an article with such intensity it dented the print.

Kari set her camera down on her lap and reluctantly postponed her peoplewatching.

"Yes, Yolei," she said. "I have."

Her roommate's eyes bulged and she jostled her eyeglasses before rearing back.

" _And?_ " she gasped.

With a sigh, Kari crossed her legs, moved to switch her attentions again—though not for any artistic pursuit. She needed an out, a distraction.

Yolei purred a harmless growl, bringing the paper up to her nose to read. She adjusted her glasses again and cleared her throat.

" _'And aside from being talented and beautiful_ ,'" she recited, "' _the eighteen-year-old freshman displays a refreshing wit and wisdom for her art, providing me, as phony a photographer as one can imagine (I don't think gratuitous selfies count), with clear and engaging explanations of her technique as well as any pertinent artistic history behind them.'_ "

Violently, the paper flapped shut. Kari caught the sight of paper crinkling out of the corner of her eye, but she refused to turn. Sunlight gilding the braids of a girl in a flowy dress, the melting cup of soft serve in the hand of the boy speaking to her, the hole in his backpack from a rushed zip job—she focused on them. Obviously, Yolei wanted to drive home a point, but Kari was determined to resist acknowledging it.

" _Hello?_ "

Yolei hopped in front of her, waving her arms. Kari recoiled, bringing her camera to her chest like a shield. She was tempted to press the shutter button, capturing prime blackmail material of Yolei in a frothy rage. Kindly, she decided against it.

"I heard you, Yolei," she said. She lifted the camera strap over her head and placed the gadget on the tabletop, surrendering to Yolei's implicit demands. Swayed, Yolei took the seat opposite Kari, and in that time, the young photographer glimpsed over her shoulder, back at the girl with the sunkissed braids and the boy with the soupy dessert, mentally ruing the loss of a photographic opportunity.

"Really?" Yolei gaped. "What I just read does _nothing_ for you? This kid—what's his name?—" She riffled through the paper again. "TK..." Kari raised an eyebrow, amused at the furrow on Yolei's forehead when she came across the unusual surname. "TK something or other," her roommate waved off. "Kari, this guy just declared to the entire university that he thinks you're _beautiful_. How are you not giggling and kicking at the air with glee?"

Kari didn't even blink.

"Because it's embarrassing," she retorted. She reached for the periodical on the table and folded it back to its cover, hiding the article in question.

"Embarra... _What?_ "

She tried not to bristle.

"Do you have any idea what will happen when my brother finds out this guy wrote that about me? He's asking for a death wish."

Yolei blew a raspberry, motor-like and wet.

"Like your brother even reads the newspaper. He's not going to know about it."

"Okay," Kari ceded, mildly upset Yolei had caught on to the truth. "Fine." She turned, her eyes already on a distant point, marking some arbitrary destination where she could end the conversation.

"Umm…?"

Kari glanced at Yolei, immediately regretting the focus back to her roommate. She was doing her a disservice, she knew, but she was done entertaining the topic—for the time being at least.

"Can we pick this up another time?" she offered, standing. A digit tapped the side of her camera. "I'll be late for class."

Yolei's eyes pinched to a squint, examining her suspiciously behind the round frames of her glasses.

"You're not just saying that to leave, right?"

Her tone was teasing, but Kari knew Yolei had an earnest interest in the development of the story. Why? She couldn't fathom. All she knew was that her roommate had frequent flights of fancy—not helped by her indulgence in overdone TV soap operas.

"I don't break my promises," Kari assured her. "I'll see you later."

xXx

He unlocked the door to his apartment whistling. Shoes were kicked off, keys spun around a finger like a cowboy finishing a shootout. TK stuffed one foot into a slipper before his whistling was interrupted.

"You look like the cat that swallowed the canary."

TK turned blue eyes to the dining table. His roommate was seated at the head, legs crossed, school newspaper open in his grip, face blocked by sheets of black and white print. He glanced at the tabletop and saw a small plate of leftover bread crust, a half-empty mug of coffee. To complete the image of "Dad at the Breakfast Table," TK just needed to place a glass of orange juice.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Ken," said TK as he put on the other slipper and walked into their kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, pleased to hear the jangle of jars and bottles and cartons in the door shelves. It was a sign that they wouldn't need to scavenge campus for free meals, though that was largely due to Ken's near maternal dorm management.

 _I hope you bought orange juice_ , TK mused to himself, grinning as he spotted the bottle. He unscrewed the cap and poured a glass, rounding behind Ken's chair to place it on the table.

"I'm not going to drink that if you put it down." Ken uttered the words without lifting eyes off the newspaper pages, though they were enough to halt TK's hand. "Drink it yourself, or put it back."

"Yes, Mom."

Compliant, TK sat in the chair adjacent, obligingly taking a sip of the orange juice. He didn't care for the drink much—he had only poured the glass to mock Ken and his Dad-at-Breakfast ensemble—but he felt tamed into obeying Ken's orders, much like a child cowed by his mother.

"And don't play coy," Ken went on, still not looking at him. "You know precisely to what I refer."

"Oh, really? Are you now a Sherlock Holmes, Ken? Should I buy you a Billiard pipe for Christmas? Get you a tweed Deerstalker cap?"

Ken sniffed.

"I'm studying to be a forensic scientist. Some aptitude in deductive processing would be helpful in getting there."

"So I'm practice."

There was a flash of Ken's dark blue eyes in his direction, blinked over the rim of his coffee mug as he brought it to his lips. TK frowned, able to read in the gesture the words that weren't even said aloud: " _What's there to read? You're entirely transparent._ " To think such a thought accompanied Ken's first glimpse of him of the day.

Miffed, TK nudged the glass of orange juice back with his knuckles. In the silence that ensued, he picked apart the bread crust on Ken's plate.

"You know she's going to kill you when she finds out," Ken said. He peeked at him again from behind the newspaper pages, and TK lifted his head, his good humor resurfacing in the motion.

"Who? Kat? Psh. She loves me."

Ken declined to comment, clearing his throat as he snapped the wilting pages of the newspaper back upright. That he failed to say anything had TK fidgeting in his seat.

"I'm surprised she let you publish it. Doesn't she comb every article for content and errors before printing?"

TK shrugged, mumbling only the vowel sounds of " _I don't know._ "

"My editor's eye is impeccable, Ken. What are you implying? That she slipped up?"

The question of Catherine's credibility as the _Canto_ 's leader forced Ken to put the periodical down. TK was certain his roommate was indifferent to Catherine, but printed publications were only as good as the people behind them, and if their present situation was any indication, Ken had grown quite fond of _The_ _Canto_ and its _Times_ and _Tribune_ feel.

"I know that," he said. "So now I'm wondering what you did to have this article go unnoticed."

TK was grinning—tight-lipped—before he knew it, and the second he felt his lips break, he checked the snort of laughter.

"I didn't do anything, Ken. Guess I was lucky."

Ken folded the newspaper carefully while uncrossing his legs. He stood, tucked the paper under his armpit, and picked up his breakfast dishes.

"Like I said," he began, swiping up TK's glass of orange juice. "She's going to kill you."

xXx

" _Where is he!_ "

Catherine was beside herself, stiff and seething—so much so her porcelain skin was practically aboil.

"When I find him," she raged, "I'm going to wring his—"

"—Scrawny little neck?" finished her one of her news editors.

"No!" she snapped, taking a step forward in her shiny heels. "I'm going to wring every single of his digits until they break and he can't freaking write anymore. _Where is he!_ "

TK overheard Catherine's outrage behind the façade of focus. He was at his desk in the newsroom, catching up on current events, headphones on and, seemingly, tuned out to the world around him.

In truth, he was only skimming the words on his screen, and he wasn't even playing music. He just wanted to look like he was busy. He couldn't give Catherine the satisfaction of knowing he was hearing her, could he?

"He's at his desk," offered one of the other staff writers, a tad too helpfully. TK looked away from his screen at his betrayer, briefly contemplating revenge.

"Do you have _any_ idea what you've done?"

The question hit him on the side of the head. Catherine might as well have walloped him in the face with her Louis Vuitton purse rather than her outcry. Rapidly, he rebounded, edging his chair back as Kat advanced, lifting the headphones off the crown of his skull.

"Pardon?" he said softly, blinking blue eyes slowly at her. Too late he realized the puppy gaze would have no effect on her, as Catherine's eyes was larger, more doe-like, and bluer than his.

 _Okay, batting the eyelashes won't work, Takaishi. Which means, Plan B._

As Catherine froze in anger at his obliviousness, TK leaned back, relaxed his erect spine, and spread his legs, bouncing knees. He was tempted to pull the pencil from behind his ear and gnaw on the eraser, but he checked the impulse, saving it instead if Catherine's mood hadn't shifted.

"What the hell do you mean, ' _Pardon_ '?" She nearly spat at him. "Explain this!"

She lifted the latest issue of _The Canto_ like Henri Sanson carrying the guillotined head of Marie Antoinette. She even went so far as to rattle it in front of him. TK felt the corner of his left eye twitching, and he stopped the tic, knowing Catherine would capitalize on a display of weakness.

"You're going to need to be more specific."

Catherine obliged, albeit amid a prolonged growl, flipping pages until she reached the reason for her episode. Once located, she punched it with a rigid finger.

"Do you have _any_ idea how many emails and comments I've received about your 'article'?"

TK shrugged, secretly, deliciously pleased with the information.

"Oh, wow," remarked another newsroom colleague, dryly. "So popular, Takaishi."

The quickness with which TK replied was neither becoming nor surprising.

"Can't help it," he played, all smug gratification. "Good writing attracts response, doesn't it?"

He swiveled in his desk chair, sweeping a look across the newsroom for nods of agreement. Not one cranium moved, though all eyes were on them regardless. Still, the spotlight was the spotlight. TK shrugged, looking back at Catherine.

"You're going to apologize to the school for this piece," she commanded.

"What?" His open mouth dropped another inch. "Apologize for what?" He stood without realizing it, staring Kat down. "You should be thanking me! Look at how many people are reading it! And you know they read it because they emailed you about it!"

She retracted the paper, rolling it as if she were going to swat at a buzzing housefly.

"My newspaper is not some gossip teen magazine for you to chart your love life, TK!" she shouted, raising the periodical-turned-weapon. "Do you have any idea how hard I have worked to bring this school's newspaper to a higher tier of collegiate press? This sorry newspaper was just police blotters and crossword puzzles before I turned it around and made it something more than crappy wrapping paper or packing material!"

He was tempted to roll his eyes, and he tried so hard to check the impulse that instead of channeling the energy to stop the motion, he ended up doing a freakish variation—eyes rolling too far that only the whites showed.

"Ew!" cried Catherine, hitting him at last. "Don't do that!"

Corrected, TK looked at her, reanimated to finish their argument.

"Well, everything goes through you, Kat, doesn't it? This went through you." He pointed at the paper still rolled in her fist.

"God, _spare_ me," she emoted, the words huffed from the depths of her lungs. "You know you took advantage of me."

A resounding gasp filled the room and the cacophonic tick-tacking of fingers on keyboards stopped altogether. TK shushed them instantly.

"Not like that! Is this a daytime soap? No, it isn't."

"Admit it," Catherine challenged. "You submitted that to me _late_ , on the eve of a conference you knew I'd be attending out of town for three full days. I had preparation to do for that, schoolwork, and checking all the articles coming in for this issue. You knew I trusted you, and you took advantage of that. Of course I didn't look at it, you idiot! And because I didn't, now _I'm_ the idiot, and you will fix this or you will never write for me again."

The string of words concluding Catherine's tirade were words TK, for all his innovativeness, had never considered a possibility. "Never," "write," and "again" flickered in his mind like floating, glowing embers in a hellish fire. He clutched the plaid fabric over his heart, going so far as to sway backwards lightly.

"You can't mean that," he said. "You don't mean that."

"Do you want to find out?"

"No," he muttered meekly.

Up until then TK had had no qualms about causing a scene, but now he was acutely sensitive to their disruptions. Hunching, he whispered, "Can we continue talking about this outside? Please?"

With a huff, Catherine led the way out, stomping heels on the tile of their newsroom. Once outside, TK offered hands up in pardon, though he kept the display brief should Catherine misinterpret it as surrender.

"I know you're upset, Kat, but I can't write an apology for that. I can't."

"Why not?"

"Uhh…"

He should have expected the inevitable ' _why?_ ' (Catherine was a reporter after all) but he was miserably unprepared for it.

"Let me, um… let me run an alternative by you first."

His foot tapped antsily on the ground, moisture creeping out of his armpits. The swiftness with which his thoughts flew worked up an unpleasant sweat, the sort of desperation reserved only for those trying to escape corporal punishment.

"And that would be…?" she probed.

TK groaned inwardly.

 _God love and curse her attention to detail._

"Um, I haven't thought of one yet, but give me twenty-four hours and I'll have one."

"And if I don't like it?"

"Then I'll write your apology."

There, he said it. Blabbed it, more like, as if it were an abject something his body couldn't stomach—figurative vomit. TK considered himself a patient person, but that was likely due to the facts that he usually got what he wanted immediately, and without much effort. Catherine was playing tree branch to his Tantalus, dangling approval over his head, and his tolerance wore thin. He looked at her with pleading eyes.

"Fine," she relented, and TK breathed again. "Twenty-four hours."

xXx

 **A/N** **: In case any of you were wondering, yes, the Catherine here is very loosely based on the Catherine from Adventure 02 (during the Digimon World Tour bit). Really, she's just inspiration for her look, but also, don't count out TK's light crush on her in the show to have some influence here in this story.**

 **And boy, there's been a lot of this kid lately. Kari will feature more predominantly next chapter once TK's alternative idea reaches fruition.**

 **Happy Holiday! And thanks for reading!**

 **Aveza**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** **: Dang, it's been a while, hasn't it? I am so sorry, guys. This past year has just been a bowl of butts, and I admit having real difficulty finding the time (let alone the inspiration) to write.**

 **BUT, you can thank lovely fanfic writer, A Hidden Path, for this update, because she's been cheering me on and pep-talking me about writing, and I don't think this chapter would have reached fruition without her.**

 **Obviously, I have my insecurities about this chapter and things I wish I had more time to do right, but hey… you are never 100% ready for anything, really, right? So, what the hell. Here's an update!**

 **Please enjoy, and let me know what you think!**

xXx

Chapter Three

xXx

 **K** ari lay awake, thoughts ablaze and blinking like Macau's Cotai Strip at night—not that she'd ever been. She turned on her side, getting a view of Yolei sleeping on her side of the room, lavender hair pooling like water beneath her head. How was it so easy for Yolei to make decisions that were critical nightmares for her? Yolei's choices had been so quick, so certain.

" _Of course I'd reach out to him_. _Of course I'd ask to meet him for coffee if he didn't ask first. Of course I'd be flattered._ "

 _Of course, of course, of course_ , Kari mentally parroted. As if it were common sense, as if only the blind would be, well, blind to the courses of action. If that were the case, she had a severe case of nuclear sclerotic cataracts.

Sighing, Kari bent over the edge of her bed, digging a hand under her mattress until she found the product of her search. With a grunt, she yanked it out, careful not to crumple its pages. She reached for the phone on her nightstand and, bringing it close to her shoulder, used the glare of its screen to read the small print on the paper in her hands. Amber eyes scanned the columns of text.

" _Talented and beautiful_. _Talented and beautiful. Talented... and... beautiful."_

She read the words three times in a row with the hopes that, by the third time, they'd churn in her gut the feelings of glee and giggles seemingly appropriate for girls publicly flattered by boys. But the sensation never came. No rush of blush to her cheeks, no surge of heartburn, no tumultuous mixing in her stomach.

 _Stop it_ , she chided herself.

With another sigh, she tucked the periodical away, back in its space under her mattress. She shut off her phone, and, after a moment to listen to her own breathing, closed her eyes and fell asleep.

xXx

As midnight fell, TK felt like Cinderella—meaning he could sense all his good luck vaporizing, his genius poofed into a paperweight pumpkin.

"Ken, I need an idea."

He spoke in the dark from the comfort of his bed, snuggly dressed in his flannel pajamas. His words were addressed to the ceiling. His roommate, too, was already in bed on his half of their shared room, blindfold over his steely blue eyes.

But TK knew Ken was not asleep. The essential oil diffuser on his nightstand quietly puffed the smell of citrus into their room. When the machine quieted, _then_ Ken would be asleep.

"I'm sorry, you've come to the wrong shop," answered Ken after a long silence.

TK spun around.

"Ken, my man, I'd help you if you were in my position."

His roommate continued to lay perfectly still on his back, arms folded over his chest, chin pointed regally, like King Tut being laid in his sarcophagus—not that he was dead, though when he slumbered, TK marveled at the phenomenon that Ken barely moved in his sleep. Did he enter a cryogenic state or what?

"I would never be in your position, TK."

TK whined and flipped onto his stomach, grumbling into his pillow.

"Point," came his muffled acknowledgement.

Still, TK was not discouraged. While he feigned disappointment and desperation, he gladly waited out the silence that followed. In the quiet, guilt and conscience would sneak in. Ken's general kindness would begin to shine, his amygdala glowing in all its altruistic regions.

His roommate sighed.

"From where I stand," he began, and TK lifted face from pillow, already smiling, "you need to appease both parties. You want to keep your article as is but you also don't want to get fired as a staff writer."

"I get that much," TK retorted, deliberately ungrateful. "But how?"

Ken lifted his blindfold, peeking one eye over at him.

"Catherine needs to get something out of your proposed solution. Preferably not just a verified readership."

"What more could she ask for?" TK questioned, disliking the suggestion despite having no other options. "The blood of virgins?"

The blindfold lifted higher, revealing a pair of blue eyes glaring at him in the dark. Needless to say, he and his roommate shared very different types of humor.

"Sometimes I wonder why I allow you to rope me into your schemes."

"Call it magic, Ken. I'm mag—" He stopped, popping up from bed like a jack in the box unleashed. "I've got it!" he shouted.

A pounding on the wall from their fellow suitemates interrupted his Eureka moment.

"Shut." _Thwack_. " _Up!_ "

TK stared at the assaulted wall in bemusement, the order never quite puncturing his brain, which was lit like the sun. Ken summed up the request less succinctly, but with more tact.

"Go to sleep, TK," he said, drawing the blindfold back over his eyes.

"Pfft. No rest for the wicked, Ken, my man," he said, throwing his covers aside. He jumped into his desk chair, swiveling around a few cycles while his laptop awakened. Once lit, he resumed his mission and opened a new email.

 _Seven minutes late_ , he typed.

 _But please indulge. Idea found. Let's discuss. Tomorrow—I mean today._

– _TK_

Having sent his missive, he crawled back into bed and sighed contentedly under the covers.

xXx

Kari stood by the black chain-link fence of the soccer pitch. Her hand's edge rested against her forehead, palm parallel to the grass, doing its best to shield her eyes from the glare of a mid-Autumn sun. A cool breeze carried with it the murmur of the soccer team as they closed another practice, chuckles as jokes were exchanged, denials or affirmations spoken in baritone.

As the boys scattered, doffing shirts or guzzling water, Kari waved, once, at her older brother. He returned her greeting, slipping the captain's armband off a bicep as he hailed her with his water bottle. She smiled, and he turned away, her real reason for idling by the pitch coming into focus as she squinted past her brother's wild brown hair. After a blink, her friend's tanned figure was jogging over to her, naked from the waist up, swarthy skin in a glistening sweat—the smell of which hit her like a boxer's uppercut as he approached.

"Hey, Kari!" he greeted. He raised an arm. Despite being half-blinded by the sun, Kari could still plainly see the swatch of armpit hair revealed in the welcoming gesture. She braced herself and stepped further to the left, keeping her distance just wide enough that when his arm lowered, his hand landed on her shoulder instead of his elbow (and greasy armpit) hooking around her neck. She was proud (if not protective) of her dainty constitution.

"Aw, I don't smell that bad, do I?"

Kari smirked, patting the hand on her shoulder before plucking it off her person.

"Bad enough, Davis," she replied. "It's expected, though."

He laughed.

"Right. It'd be weirder if I didn't smell." He sniffed. "What's up?"

He asked the question over his shoulder, away from her. To anyone else, the gesture would have appeared rude, but Kari's stare had been trained to be just as sensitive to her older brother's hawk-like vigilance. Davis's crush on her was old news, and she considered him now an indispensable compatriot in the world of college, but sure enough, her brother watched them from a distance, eyebrow raised in suspicion average enough to ignore.

Davis, in good humor, waved at him.

"Can I help you, _Capitán?_ " he shouted, to which his response was a well-intentioned flip of a middle digit.

Kari frowned lightly and dropped her bookbag on the ground, yanking open its zipper.

 _Boys_.

"Anyway," Davis resumed, looking back at her. "What's going on?"

"Here." Kari handed him a clean T-shirt. "Let's go for a walk?"

Less fragrant, and out of the perimeter of her overprotective sibling, Kari felt free to speak plainly—or as plainly as her inhibited nature allowed.

"Did you read this week's campus newspaper?" she asked. Their footsteps crunched lightly atop the first dusting of dead leaves, splashes of yellow, orange, and red that offered speckles of bold contrast against the cold, impenetrable blue of the sky. Every few seconds, Kari would toggle her gaze from the ground to the heavens, distracted by the depths of color.

"No," said Davis. "Unless I was on the cover of the Sports section. Was I?"

"No."

"Damn."

Kari sighed. She should have expected as much, but curse her for hoping for a speck of intellectuality from Davis. Still, for all his shortcomings academically, her friend boasted an alarmingly high emotional intelligence, which explained how easily he caught on to the purpose of their chat.

"Why?" he asked.

"It's best if you just read it."

She shifted her backpack to one shoulder and brought it forward, opening the main compartment and pulling out the news article. She handed it to him and sat on a nearby bench while Davis paced and read. It usually took him a while to cool down from soccer practices—hence the restlessness.

" _Dude_." He giggled. "Is this guy asking for a death wish?"

He was speaking from experience.

"Exactly what I said," Kari replied, "but Yolei thinks it's cute."

Davis looked up from the paper, lightly rolling his eyes.

"Yolei thinks _everything_ is cute."

"Well, not you."

"Ouch."

He handed the paper back to her amid her chuckling, and she stowed it back in her bookbag. Davis took the seat beside her on the bench.

"He has a pair, for sure," he remarked, rubbing his chin. "Tai doesn't know?"

"No." Her eyes narrowed when they met his, and her stare steeled with each word that followed. " _And he won't_."

Davis raised his hands.

"Hey, now," he began, grinning, "I liked your brother as much as I liked you, Kari—maybe even a little more—but your secret is safe with me." For good measure, he bumped a fist into her bony shoulder. "I got you."

"Thanks," she murmured, unconvinced. Part of her already regretted her lack of faith in Davis, but his affection for both her and her brother could be debilitating given his people-pleasing nature—particularly toward people he liked or wanted to impress. All Tai had to do to get him to confess was utter his name and a greeting: " _Hey, Motomiya! What's good?_ "

She glimpsed at him. The tips of his spiky, burgundy hair glowed against the light of the sun, reminding her of burning paper. He smiled wanly and tipped his head.

"So… what are you going to do about it? Have you contacted the guy—what's his face—" He looked around for the paper, forgetting he had returned it a minute ago. Without the primary source, he took a wild guess. "TW?"

"No," Kari said, and she didn't bother to correct him with the right name. "I don't know if I should. I thought you could help me decide. What would you do if someone wrote something like that about you?"

"Uhh..." Davis blinked at her, slices of his brown eyes amber-clear in the sunlight. "Well, it's kind of obvious, Kari, isn't it? You get in touch. You get laid."

 _Oh, brother_.

She fist-bumped his shoulder back.

"Be serious."

"I am! Hey, if a guy likes me, I'm going to pursue it. And this guy isn't half bad, either, to be honest." Kari piqued an eyebrow. Davis couldn't remember her admirer's name, but he very distinctly remembered what he looked like from the author's headshot included in the paper's front pages. Before she realized what she was doing, she looked him up and down, assessing his priorities. Davis, oblivious, went on: "Don't girls like the blond-blue-eyed thing? Isn't that why when Matt Ishida and his band play, panties fly off?"

She simpered.

"Don't forget your boxers."

"Ha, ha." He nudged her foot with the toe of his shoe. It was a denial, but he was blushing.

"Anyway," Kari picked up. "Don't you think it's a little presumptuous? Vain? Self-indulgent?"

Davis wrinkled his nose, and Kari didn't know if it was because she had asked too many questions in a row to tackle thoughtfully or because she had strayed from using Davis's simple, demotic vernacular. Turned out, it was neither.

"Why do you automatically think when a guy compliments you it's to make _himself_ feel better?"

Her mind reeled to a full stop, and her pondering quieted so instantaneously she thought she could hear the wind blowing in one ear and out the other, as if her brain had vaporized to breath. Her posture straightened by degrees as her eyes regained focus, seeking him among the broad shafts of sun and the moving shadows of the trees.

"I... don't know," she murmured. Her brow wrinkled the instant the words left her lips. She could feel heat rising in her face, boiling from somewhere deep within—from the heart or lungs, maybe—and bubbling up to the paper-thin skin of her cheeks.

"Because when _I_ told you I liked you," he went on, "it wasn't to give myself a pat on the back. I was terrified."

 _Only because of Tai_ , she thought. She began to fidget, massaging the knuckles in each of her fingers, rubbing the toes of her sneakers into the sidewalk below their feet, wondering why the topic bothered her when she didn't even have a precise answer. All she could ascertain was that something about his observation rang off as completely, utterly, and indisputably _wrong_. She only lacked the knowledge and experience to classify it.

"That's not to say other guys don't think that way," she countered, settling for an approximation, even the beginning of one. "You haven't met him."

"Excuse me," he parried. "Neither have you."

Her lips pinched as she looked away, annoyed by the truth and her inability to debate it. She glowered at ground. A line of ants crawled across the concrete expanse, finding their way forward even around the curves and disturbances of their shoes.

"You're no better than Yolei," she mumbled.

"Uh, I am _way_ better than Yolei," Davis retorted. "First off, she snores. I don't."

"Davis."

"What?"

She opened her mouth, intending to say something, but all that came out was a long, loutish:

" _Ughhh_."

Her hands traveled to her temples, and she began to knead tiny circles into the bones. Davis clapped her gently on the back, shaking her lightly.

"Hey," he said, attempting comfort. "Be frustrated less loudly. Any sound of upset you make is like a siren to Tai, and then I'll blink and he'll be here punching me in the throat."

Kari closed her lips, but her glare didn't lift nor lessen. It intensified.

Davis, blithely—perhaps fatally so—stood and offered her a hand up off the bench.

"Ice cream," he proposed. "Let's get you some ice cream."

xXx

Catherine stared at TK with murderous intent. She leaned back in her chair, arms folded, legs crossed, and heeled foot swinging so angrily under her desk the toe of her stiletto pounded against the front panel.

"Are you… crazy?" she asked, voice at a whisper, as if she were asking if he had farted in public.

"Uh… not—no—" TK fumbled, finding himself, at the last second, doubting. "I don't think so?" In a flash of inspiration, he smiled. "But let's not rule out the possibility."

It was a joke. She didn't laugh.

"TK," she began, sliding her folded arms over the desktop. "It's not going to work." She grimaced, lips pouting. TK caught himself mirroring her frown, but not for the same reasons. For all her efforts to look pained, there was a glitter in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she resumed. "But I'll be taking that apology now."

As a firm acolyte of the power of written language to transform, inspire, and educate, TK was a rare swearer. Yet, at that moment, curses swooped in, exploding in his skull like firecrackers.

 _What! The! F*#%!_

The flood of profanity clashed, the curtness and stabbing of their sounds against one another filling his head with noise. He should have said something, but all he could do was gasp—shriek, more like.

"You're not even considering it?"

Catherine's icy eyes fastened on him. Their glare heightened under the fluorescence of the newsroom's overheads and sent a terror powerful enough to zigzag down his spine and suture his tailbone to his chair.

"Honestly." She put her swinging foot down, assuming her most authoritative stance. Like a mountain rising from a crack in the earth, she stood, fingertips spreading wide atop her desk, upper body leering. In contrast, he felt himself edging back, flattening, like a worm about to be crushed by a shoe. Or, in this case, speared by the knifepoint heel of her stiletto. "How _creepy_ are you willing to reveal yourself? This is stalkerish behavior."

"Pardon me," he rejoined, "but if I were a stalker, I'd _be_ stalking her right now." Arguing somehow reenergized him, and he righted his posture, even going so far as to point a finger at her. "My method is opportunistic—for myself, yes, but also for you. You've been relying on some pretty flaky and pretty crap freelance photographers since you started. You've told me this, and I'm basically handing you a permanent photographer on a silver platter!"

Catherine crossed her arms and rounded her desk until she stood directly in front of him. Her lips worked to shape a reply, puckering as if to kiss, teeth chewing her gums behind the rosy tint of her cheeks. Even whilst looking constipated, she was attractive, hailing from the same planet of beautiful people as his older brother.

"With ulterior motives," she countered, at length.

TK shrugged. Her assessment was not inaccurate.

"Kat," he began, sighing. He pulled off his knit beanie and scrubbed a hand through the flattened hair. "Do you realize that I have lit a flame of interest among the _Canto_ 's readers? Perhaps even gained you a few, or several, new subscribers?"

To support his claim, he pointed at a pile of papers on her desk, the printouts of all the emails she had received regarding his article. "Exhibit A," he wanted to declare, like a lawyer caught in the throes of his supporting arguments. He hadn't perused all the emails in their entirety, but from the few he read, the reactions were generally—and enthusiastically—positive. "These people _want_ to know how the story will continue," he resumed, "how it will end. I need to keep this fire going, and I can't write or continue my serial without her participation in it. She needs to be aware. I'm not a complete asshole."

Her expression hadn't shifted. She still looked like she was seconds away from lunging at him, bitten by the fangs of rage, but fighting its infection.

"No," she agreed, blandly. "Just a fraction of one." She clucked her tongue and eased her hip over the edge of her desk and onto the flat, wooden surface. The infinitesimal movement was all her tight pencil skirt would allow. With knitted eyebrows, she studied him, eyes narrowing in such a way that reminded him of how a cobra targeted its prey before it spit. "Do you honestly think once you've explained everything to her that she'll play along?" she questioned. "What sordid male fantasy are you living?"

He stared at her, mouth hanging, using every second of his shock to keep himself from smacking the heel of his palm onto his forehead.

"What are you even talking about?" he asked. "It's not like I'm tricking her or anything."

Catherine thrust her hands up in the air. With blinding quickness she retreated back to her seat behind her desk, crying: "This entire proposal is sheer, ludicrous, insulting artifice! Oh, my _God_. You are wrong and misguided on so many levels. It is unbelievable!"

TK scratched his head, watching her. Against his better judgment, the only word to come up to describe the situation—and her—was " _hysteria_."

"Um…" He leaned forward, tapping fingers on her desk as she, in her fury, reorganized her paper piles loudly, dramatically, and with much flapping and huffing. "Did you hear the part where you gain a promising new talent?" he probed. "You weren't at her show, but I spoke with her, I interviewed her, I saw what she's capable of doing. She's smart and creative and knowledgeable, and you have every opportunity, if you follow my proposal, to influence her greatness. Don't you want a legacy?"

With a sigh, Catherine slapped the pages of an article on her desktop. Her glare had lessened somewhat, enough to make him believe he'd live to walk through the newsroom doors.

"I'd be for it, truly," she replied, "if you didn't have another agenda. Your best argument is your guise, and I will not support such malignant contrivance."

She sat, which TK took as a sign that she was calming. He dared to keep pressing his pitch.

"You forget that she has every option to deny the opportunity. All of my proposed contrivances can be for nothing, but… I want to take that risk. You literally have nothing to lose, Kat. Only I do. If she agrees, you get a photographer. If she doesn't, I write your apology."

He held her stare in the long seconds that followed as she considered him, fingers steepling over her chest. The methodic tapping of her shoe against the desk panel returned, counting time like an aggressive metronome.

"Well," she said, "that was… uncalled for."

He summoned a smile.

"As you said. I'm just a fraction of an asshole."

She raised her eyebrows, the corner of her red mouth curving into a smirk.

"All right, TK. Fine." The smirk broadened to an earnest smile, her eyes even shrinking under the happy contortion of facial muscles. Still, he couldn't express satisfaction or announce victory just yet. He lived—and wrote—for exactness. "I will reach out to her, but if she declines the offer, _you will give me that apology_."

"Fair." He rose from his seat, extending his hand to her, sealing their accord. As she stood to shake it, he added, "And even if you deliberately do a shoddy job making the offer to her, you'll change your mind once you get her talking about her art. I guarantee it."

Catherine continued in her good manner, all smiles, though TK suddenly felt a pang of pressure on the bones of his hand, her grip transforming into a clamp, a tourniquet that cut off circulation to his fingers. In a reflex, he jerked his arm back, but to no avail. She had him.

"TK," she said sweetly, nearly singing his name. She pulled, and he bucked forward, knees knocking against the front of her desk. "Do not ever make the mistake of thinking you know what I will and will not do. Is that clear?"

He smiled uneasily, feeling his hairline moisten, the pulse in his neck quicken.

"Um… Yeah. Absolutely."

"Good." She released her hold on him and patted him lightly on the chest. "Now, leave. I have a job offer to make."

xXx

 **A/N** **: So, hmm… wonder how Kari will take to this proposal of TK's? Poorly, I hope. Hahaha. But that means there's room for development. ;)**

 **Anywho, this story is my project for NaNoWriMo, so if everything goes well, there may be more updates in December onward! Hopefully with more action! (And less, uh… conniving? TK has a lot to learn, doesn't he?)**

 **I'd love to see what you guys think! Please review if you can! :) Until next time!**


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